In Session
by TalksToSelf
Summary: After Sherlock's return, his friendship with John is damaged and it's beginning to have an impact on their work - as a last resort they're sent to Scotland Yard's working relationship therapist, but is it too late to salvage their friendship?
1. Step 1: Admitting you need help

It was certainly not the first time they'd been admonished as of late, but the prospect of being called into Lestrade's office was never a pleasant one. John deliberately avoided Sherlock's eye while they waited for the Detective Inspector and had purposely seated himself to one side, his leg giving him more trouble than ever since Sherlock's dramatic return two months ago, funny that - considering it was psychosomatic. Sherlock wandered around the office, upturning one of Lestrade's potted plants and examining the soil out of boredom. John fought the urge to shout at him, to tell him to stop pissing about and sit the fuck down, but he'd done enough shouting and swearing for the day and it was only 11am.

Lestrade flew into the room, slamming the door behind him.  
"I have just spent the last twenty minutes trying to calm down the victim's wife because of you two!" He hissed angrily, sinking down into his chair and glaring at them. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"  
"Sorry?" John suggested, knowing it was weak at best. Sherlock just clicked his teeth indignantly - tearful relatives had never been his forte.  
"Don't you bloody start." Lestrade snapped at him. "This is the fifth time in as many weeks! Sherlock you owe Mrs Larter an apology at the very least."  
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry your lover offed your husband." Sherlock said sarcastically, Mrs Larter was not in the room but had she been, Sherlock would have been just as callous. Lestrade sighed.  
"I'll look into it, but our original verdict stands until then." He said firmly. "She still insists her lover was with her the night of her husband's death."

"Well of _course_ she'd give him an alibi you moronic..."  
"I still say it was suicide." John said softly. Sherlock rounded on him.  
"Oh for goodness sake, not this again!" He growled. "He found out his wife was cheating on him, he lost his temper, went round for a row and came off worst!" Sherlock said waspishly, he had evidence that the husband had confronted the lover, but nobody was interested in a ginger cat hair and a green tea stain when there was a man lying dead in the morgue. Nobody listened to him lately, no matter how sound his deductions were, even though Scotland Yard had issued a full apology, the press had retracted all statements regarding his so called 'fakegenius' and a law suit was pending against The Daily Mail for defamation ofcharacter - Sherlock had lost the power he had once held. He no longer had the influence over Scotland Yard. He may have cleared his name and proved he was not a criminal mastermind, but he had faked his own death - and that made him untrustworthy in the eyes of the rest of the world.

"_Or _he found out his wife of twenty years was cheating on him and, heartbroken, decided he'd had enough." John retorted.  
"Yes well, you're just obsessed with suicide." He retorted offhandedly. Lestrade and John both froze, Sherlock knew vaguely that the looks on their faces meant he'd said something a bit not good. John's leg trembled slightly in his seat.  
"And whose fault is that?" John's tone was soft but gently venomous. Lestrade ran his hand through his hair.  
"I can't do this any more, you two." He said, shaking his head. "I've tried to tolerate it and God knows I've turned a blind eye more often than I should have but, no... enough is enough." John raised an eyebrow, he'd lost enough jobs in his youth to know the 'you're sacked' speech when he heard it, but technically they weren't under the employ of Scotland yard - they couldn't be fired.

"I don't want to do this but... the pair of you at each other's throats constantly, you two _only _work as a team. No offence mate but you're bloody unbearable without John's backing." Lestrade told him, Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "And John, your medical expertise is always handy but seriously, you're becoming a liability the pair of you."  
"If you don't want our help we'd be happy to find another form of entertainment..." Sherlock started cuttingly.  
"Shut _up,_Sherlock." John growled - partially because this wasn't entertainment, it was work - and important work at that (John knew Sherlock knew that really, he was just being a prat for the sake of it), and partially because, damn it, even John knew not to mouth off when you were being severely reprimanded.  
"We DO want your help - both of you. Together. But you're not working 'together' any more and frankly you're putting a strain on the entire team." Lestrade steepled his fingers under his lips in a habithe'd picked up from Sherlock years ago, as he surveyed the pair of them, John looking suitably sheepish and Sherlock rolling a dirt clod between his finger and thumb.

"Look, I'm going to be as blunt as possible here: you've got issues."  
"The bastard faked his own death - of course we've got issues." John said hotly.  
"I have told you countless times why I did what I did, it's hardly my fault you can't accept an apology." Voiced the detective, a hint of anger in his usual unflappable tone.  
"You're not bloody apologising though, you're explaining and rationalising and trying to justify it!"  
"_**ENOUGH**_!" Lestrade said, thumping the table and dragging the attention of the squabbling men back to him. "The point is, if you two want to continue working in association with us, we're going to have to step in, before one of you gets the other killed or so help you god, somebody else."  
"Please let it be Anderson." Sherlock said.  
"I'm being serious!" Lestrade countered exasperatedly.  
"So am I!" Argued Sherlock.

"I'm referring you to Scotland Yard's working relationships team." Lestrade said with grim finality.  
"No." Sherlock said quickly, before John could respond. "No psychoanalysing. Absolutely not. I refuse."  
"Sherlock..."  
"I said no." Sherlock growled.  
"Then you leave me no choice." Lestrade sighed. "The two of you are to be suspended from all police work in the United Kingdom until you've completed the therapy course."  
"That's blackmail!" Sherlock squawked angrily. "You can't..."  
"I can and I will, Sherlock. I'm not having you two ballsing up my investigations any more. It's my neck on the line when you do and I'm already knee deep in the scandal you left behind." John had to appreciate Lestrade's tone, very few people understood that dealing with Sherlock was often like dealing with a spoiled child.

"You'll change your mind." Sherlock said, suddenly, smugness creeping in. "You'll get stuck. You'll need me. You always do." He smirked. "You'll come across something unusual or something you can't quite figure out and you'll ask me back."  
"Sherlock." Lestrade said, glaring daggers now. "_Three years_ you were gone, and do you know what we did? We carried on. We did our jobs. We caught murderers and smugglers and muggers and petty criminals. Yes, it probably took us twice as long as it would have done if you'd been on hand, but the bottom line is: you're not indispensable." John dared to look at Sherlock now, and was not surprised to see the fury light behind his eyes, fire and venom and a little bit of fear. People just didn't talk to Sherlock like that. Somewhere inside the robotic shell and the heart of ice, Sherlock was obviously wounded by that thought. That he wasn't needed, that he wasn't permanent, that people could and would get on with it without him. As with all children, when they need to be scolded you have to do it firmly, or they will never take you seriously.

"The team is really good, they've got therapists who deal with all sorts of stuff that goes on within the force..." Lestrade continued as though he hadn't just hurt Sherlock deeply. "They'll give you someone who you can talk to, see if you two can't get it all straightened out, yeah?" He sounded almost sympathetic.  
"I... think it could be good for us." John said eventually. "Lestrade's right... we're not working anymore, maybe therapy could help? It's certainly worth a shot..." He trailed off awkwardly, because from experience, admitting you needed help was sometimes the hardest step - but getting Sherlock to sit down and talk about feelings wasn't exactly going to be a picnic.  
"What do you say, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.  
"Well it doesn't look like I've been given much of a choice, does it." Sherlock snapped, irritated.

"I'll send them an email and let them know you'll be joining, they'll send you a letter with the time and date of your first appointment." Lestrade said, booting up the computer. Sherlock was still scowling.  
"Make sure they send mine care of my brother." He muttered darkly.  
"You still not living together?" Lestrade meant it to be conversational, but he had hit a nerve.  
"Obviously not." Sherlock grumbled - it was a sore spot for him. Sherlock had not expected to return to a fanfare or a parade, he had expected John to be angry, hurt, grief stricken and shocked, but he had _not _expected his best friend to ban him from their flat and no matter how much Sherlock pestered, John was adamant. For now at least, 221b was off limits to Sherlock, it was no longer his home and he couldn't just walk back in like nothing had happened. Of course, this and the fact that he then had to crash in one of Mycroft's many spare rooms, was doing nothing for Sherlock's foul mood lately. John did not flinch at Sherlock's griping, he was standing his ground on this one.

"You know, we wouldn't _need_ to go to therapy if you'd just forgive me already." Sherlock complained as the two slipped out of the office, leaving Lestrade to compose the email.  
"It's not that easy and you know it." John shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked lopsidedly on a leg that kept threatening to give out.  
"It never is with you." Sherlock muttered, turning his coat collar up. Sherlock walked a few paces ahead then turned swiftly to look John right in the eye. John had been doing a pretty damned good job of avoiding that gaze, he would not allow himself to be manipulated by a dead man's eyes - Sherlock had a way of almost hypnotising people with them and John knew the best way to beat Sherlock at his own game was simply not to play, but he'd been caught off guard and for the duration of Sherlock's next sentence, their eyes were locked.

"Can I come home, John?" He pleaded, looking almost - _almost_, sorry. John frowned, not just a gentle turn down of the corners of his lips, but with his entire face, creating lines that made him look painfully older than he really was. John wanted it to go back to the way it was before, the strongest friendship he'd ever known, but Sherlock was dangerous - John had always known Sherlock was dangerous, but before, when he'd been able to trust him, the danger had seemed new and exciting, a thrilling adventure. Without that sense of trust, the danger Sherlock emanated seemed too risky, too painful, foolish to be involved in. John couldn't let Sherlock back into their flat. As much as he longed to see Sherlock sulking on the sofa, or cutting up some poor bloke's fingers in the name of science - he couldn't, with good conscience invite this man back into his home. There was too much pain, too much tragedy. John could not look at Sherlock without seeing those deadened eyes, the pavement splattered in his blood.

All that occurred in the split second their eyes were locked. John broke the gaze, looking at the pavement before softly saying.  
"No, Sherlock." Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away, leaving John staring after him.

A/n: This is for benedictcumberbatchruinedme who bid highest on me at the fanfiction auction, progress on this one might be a bit slow as (almost ironically) I'm in therapy myself and it's exhausting. It will be a many chaptered work but I am so in love with the prompt and very committed to it! Reviews are helpful and I'll see you next chapter!


	2. Session Zero

John had been here before.

Well, not literally. The actual Scotland Yard therapy building was certainly new, all bright lights and cheap carpet, but he'd been in the same situation before, new therapist - about to embark on an emotional journey fraught with painful confessions and internal struggling. He hated having to divulge his inner most thoughts and feelings to an almost stranger - but he'd done it after Afghanistan, and he'd done it after Sherlock's 'death'. He arrived a good fifteen minutes before their session and wandered aimlessly around the lobby, dotted with allegedly self-esteem boosting posters boasting slogans such as  
"_Sometimes I pretend to be normal, then it gets boring, so I go back to being me!_" and "_Why be like everyone else when you were born to STAND OUT._" There were leaflets in tidy little boxes with advise on sexual harassment in the work place ("**Saying no: Everybody has that right.**") and how to handle a working relationship becoming a personal relationship ( rather humorously titled "**So you're sleeping with your boss...**"). John shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets.

The receptionist behind the desk was making tiny little noises, ones that most people wouldn't notice: popping her gum, typing on a keyboard, they were beginning to grate on John's last good nerve. He was anxious. Therapy wasn't fun at the best of times, but this was Sherlock they were talking about - Sherlock didn't do feelings or emotions, much less discussing them, and the pair were frought with them as of late. He could not imagine Sherlock doing well in this situation. Speaking of, he was late. Well... not late, just not early. John kept checking his watch habitually, ten minutes to go - no sign of the detective. He absently perused the leaflets once more. Five minutes to go - Sherlock might not even show up. Maybe he'd worked out a way to get back on cases without Lestrade's approval?

Sherlock arrived with only moments to spare, which, despite his initial worries, John was ultimately thankful for as it saved the awkward pre-counselling conversation. He did not look happy, he looked disgruntled and annoyed, muttering incoherently about Mycroft's work hours and nosy house maids with no respect for science. John nodded in vague agreement before a door to the left of the reception area opened and a young man of around twenty one called out  
"Watson and Holmes?" John limped towards the room, leaning heavily against his old cane and Sherlock followed, had John actually looked at him he would have seen the danger brewing. Sherlock's face looked like thunder, and he was already scouring the therapist's face, stance, structure and clothing, deducing his most intimate details. Young and slightly round faced, with thick glasses and a woollen jumper he looked simulataneously like a toddler and a grandparent.

"Please sit!" The man chirped energetically, long brown hair bobbing as he bounced about. "I'm Hunter." Sherlock clicked his teeth, apparently finding the name ridiculous, another negative factor towards him - the negatives were quickly mounting in Sherlock's brain as he worked out the tiny snippets of information. "I'll be working with you once a week for the foreseeable future." His tone was eager and friendly, overly so. John laid his cane to one side and sat at one end of a long sofa, opposite Hunter's own chair. Sherlock remained standing, quite defiantly. "Well, I've been sent your notes Mister Watson and..."  
"Doctor Watson." Sherlock corrected.  
"Ah... yes, Doctor Watson." Hunter amended, smiling broadly. "A fellow medical professional, I see!"  
"I'd hardly call psychotherapy a medical profession." Sherlock sniffed. "And I'd hardly call you a professional, you've only been out of school for five months." Obvious - the certificate on the wall had his graduation date on it.  
"Ah... yes well, I am qualified to..."  
"To pluck our heads as they say." Sherlock intoned sounding bored. John sighed heavily and Sherlock shut himself up, for once, sensing John wanted him to be quiet for a moment.

"Well, it's my job to talk you through some of your issues, DI Lestrade sent over a lengthy email detailing the problem and I have to say you made the right choice in coming here! I'll soon get you two back to being besties." He grinned, crossing his fingers as though attempting to symbolise their friendship. Sherlock groaned at his chirpy, youthful terminology. "So, gentlemen, what can I do to happify you?"  
"I refuse to be lectured by someone who uses the word 'happify'." Sherlock said, his moment of holding his tongue passed. Hunter looked mildly affronted.  
"It's a word..." He started.  
"As are the aberrations 'lol' and 'headmistressy', just because a word is in the Oxford English Dictionary does not give it weight or credence in a conversation."  
"Sherlock..." John started exasperatedly, but Sherlock was in full flow.

"It's not your job to 'happify' us any more than it is my job to put up with this shambolic attempt at co-operation. You want to talk, Hunter?" Sherlock asked, pale eyes narrowing as he let loose his venom. "Let's talk about the fact that you only became a therapist due to your own issues, haven't quite figured it out yet- daddy never hugged you? Mummy didn't say 'I love you' often enough? Obviously one or the other as you abandoned your birth surname and reverted to the surname of the parent you _were _overly attached to." Sherlock nodded towards the different certificates on the wall, indicating Hunter's last name as a youth (his A level award) had been Carter and changed to Harrison some time after he turned 18. Either his parents were married and he'd opted to choose his mother's maiden name in aversion to his father, or his parents were unmarried and he'd reverted to his father's surname to spite his mother.

"This 'career' you've chosen is for your own benefit, so you can try to make sense of your own pathetic childhood, of your chronic inability to hold down a girlfriend and your rather unhealthy amount of pets. I count six dogs at the very least." Sherlock observed cuttingly, barely glancing at the dog hair on Hunter's trousers and jumper. At a guess Sherlock would say it was the father that had been in the wrong, his jumper was obviously hand-knitted with love- but it could be from a grandparent so he didn't vocalise the thought. No sense airing half-formed deductions.  
"Mr Holmes, we're not here to discuss my problems..." He started, trying to sound firm, but John could see Hunter's bottom lip quivering in shock and shame, not used to patients as assertively acerbic as Sherlock.  
"Oh do yourself a favour, _Hunter_, stop trying to fix everybody else's lives and go sort out your own, or better yet stop inflicting your own issues onto other people." With a flurry of energy that seemed befitting of someone so young, Hunter leapt to his feet and fled the room, tears running down his face.

John lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose forcefully as Sherlock exhaled, barely having taken a breath as he'd torn the therapist apart.  
"Well that was certainly, _therapeutic_." He said sarcastically.  
"Okay." John said softly, sounding completely and utterly defeated. "I'll call Lestrade and tell him I won't be your... assistant or whatever any more, see if he'll take you on alone..."  
"Alone?" Sherlock questioned, confused.  
"Yeah. Sherlock, this was our chance to fix things. Probably our last chance. And, well... it's pretty obvious you don't care enough to try, so..." John clambered to his feet with difficulty, his leg giving him hell as he prepared to say it. He looked towards the window as he spoke next, still avoiding Sherlock's eye.

"I guess this is goodbye..." He said flatly. Sherlock, out of John's line of vision, froze. No, that had not been what he was going for. Surely John had found the insufferable therapist just as idiotic and the entire concept of counselling as much of a time-waste as Sherlock had? Sherlock genuinely thought he'd been doing them both a favour.  
"This... is important to you?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.  
"Look, forget it. It doesn't matter. It was a long shot anyway. We tried." John said, shaking his head. Sherlock sighed. The things he did in the name of friendship.  
"He's not coming back, is he?"  
"Who, Hunter? No... not a chance in hell." John absently played with the handle on his cane, he wanted to leave now, to just go home and sort it all out in his head. That he would never again be friends with Sherlock Holmes was a very painful thought but John had not cried since his death and the bastard certainly didn't deserve his tears now.

"Do you suppose that if I grovelled, they would assign us someone else?" Sherlock's tone was airy and John couldn't help but chuckle darkly.  
"Sherlock, you've never grovelled a day in your life." He muttered.  
"There is, as they say, a first time for everything." Sherlock swept from the room, leaving John more than a little bewildered. He could hear snippets of the conversation outside the room, Sherlock flirting with the receptionist in an attempt to get his way, buttering her up so they'd be referred to someone else.

When he came back into the room he looked slightly mollified, brushing off his long coat as though there was something disgusting on it.  
"Ten am tomorrow, we've been reassigned." He said distastefully, chatting up women was part and parcel of his job but the twenty-something girl behind the desk had been overly familiar, simpering softly about the version of the situation Sherlock had explained to her.  
"Right... and you'll behave yourself this time?" John asked.  
"Yes." He agreed instantly. "John, I've proven that I'm willing to attempt this mundane pseudo-science for the sake of our friendship." He said firmly, John nodded. "I've shown that I do 'care enough to try'." He was using John's own words against him, cluing John in to what was coming next. He braced himself for the inevitable question.

When John did not pre-empt him, Sherlock continued. "So, now you know I'm amenable to third-party assistance, that I am capable of putting aside my own beliefs, my own pride, to keep you happy..." John had not been 'happy' in a long time, the word was not appropriate and that much was obvious from the frown on John's face. Sherlock trailed off, momentarily thrown, before bolstering himself, straightening his back and attempting to catch John's eye. John artfully avoided his gaze.

"Can I come home?" Sherlock asked. John had known it was coming but it didn't make it hurt any less. His response was immediate.  
"No." He shook his head. "It's not enough to _say_ you'll try, Sherlock. You have to actually work at it. You're going to have to attend these sessions and actually talk to me, okay?" John instructed, moving past Sherlock towards the exit. Sherlock pulled him back, gripping his arm a little too tightly.  
"And then I can come home?" He implored, pushing a little harder. John struggled to free his arm, flinching away from the first physical contact they'd had since Sherlock's dramatic return.  
"We'll see. Maybe." He said, walking away to avoid Sherlock's insistence.

John was only human, there was only so many times he could say no before his willpower would fade but he had to stick to this. It was for their own good. If he let Sherlock come back now, things would never be repaired between them. John knew that if he gave Sherlock that power to just walk back into his life as though nothing had changed, nothing would change - and he could not go through all that again. Still, he felt sick to his stomach as he limped home, knowing all that awaited him when he got to 221b was deafening silence.

A/n: benedictcumberbatchruinedme has been a little under the weather these past few days, I sincerely hope this cheers her up a little bit. Or breaks her heart. I dunno. I might be Moffat... Reviews are lovely thank you :)


	3. Session 1: Falling

The de ja vu the next day was overwhelming. The same bright lights, the same cheap carpet, the same silly slogans and posters and above all the same sense of anxiety. John ignored the receptionist again, especially when she went all doe-eyed when Sherlock stalked in - John ignored him too, feigning interest in the bee on the window pane, something Sherlock actually _would_ take an interest in, he had an odd affinity with bees. It was nearly September, the bees would be dying off soon, or hibernating, or migrating, or whatever it is that bees do when the British weather starts to falter - John made a mental note to ask Sherlock about it, before remembering why they were here. Because they weren't talking, not really.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?" Rang a voice, John turned to see the door to the right of the reception area had opened and a short blonde woman stood there, a clipboard in her hand. Sherlock slipped into the room quietly and John followed, mildly surprised at Sherlock's expression. He looked resigned - perhaps he actually _would _behave himself this time? Or not. Maybe it was too much to hope for, too much to expect of him?

The room was architecturally identical to the previous one, a simple square office type thing with a chair facing a long sofa, but this woman's office was more personal, giving John the feeling she'd been here a lot longer than Hunter. Pictures of her with her children dotted the desk, art work hung on the walls with loopy original signatures - her own handiwork probably.  
"I'm Claire Sharpe." She said crisply as they all took their seats, Sherlock sinking onto the opposite end of the sofa to John. "Before we start, I just want to make one thing clear. I heard what you did to Hunter, and yes, he may be a bit wet but he's still a colleague and I will not tolerate any bullying in these sessions Mr Holmes," Her voice was curt and direct.  
"Understood." Sherlock replied coolly, his eyes betraying him, he was studying her and her office in the exact same way he had done with Hunter. John made a bet with himself that Sherlock wouldn't last ten minutes without insulting her.

"You can't hurt me the way you hurt him." Claire continued. "Simply because I've been in this job long enough to know how to deal with that sort of behaviour. There is nothing you can say to me, no magic button that will dissolve me to tears. I am here to help, and I can only do that if you want to be helped. So... do you want my help?" She asked, and John was immediately impressed. She had done what so very few people do - she had taken power away from Sherlock Holmes. For a long while the detective was silent, staring her down, he did not surrender easily but her no-nonsense tone and power games had caught his attention. Apparently viewing her a worthy opponent he eventually nodded.  
"Yes. I want your help." He admitted - something he so rarely did. She nodded approvingly.

"Okay. Good. I'm pleased to meet you both, I want to set up a few ground rules before we begin and outline the session for you. You may call me Claire or Ms Sharpe - anything you like really, and if it's okay with you I'm happy to call you John and Sherlock?"  
"Fine." Sherlock agreed.  
"Yeah that's... good yeah." John murmured, a bit taken back by how Claire's mood had switched from stern and austere to open and friendly therapist. Sherlock observed her carefully. She was good. She apparently understood she was dealing with two very different people and adopted mannerisms for best coping with each of them. Well, perhaps this wouldn't be a complete waste of his time.

"John, I've reviewed your notes from Ella, and Sherlock - you've never been in the system?"  
"I've never thought it necessary to involve any ... professional." John could tell he was using the word in a condescending fashion, and apparently so could Claire, while looking through John's file she waved her hand over her shoulder.  
"Feel free to peruse my qualifications, Mr Holmes, but do pay attention."  
"Always." He said with a smirk, getting up to wander around her office as she shifted through some of the paperwork.  
"Each session will be fifty minutes of mixed practice, from the situation details I've been given and the character profiles from Officer Lestrade I don't think talking alone will be effective for the two of you so I'd like to include at least one team-building activity in each session." She explained, John listening with rapt attention, Sherlock flicking through some of the books on her shelf but still keeping an ear out.

"We'll meet once a week for... well, we'll review how long we need every few sessions to see how you're coping and what else we need to do." She continued. "At the end of each session I will leave you two alone together for twenty minutes - whether you want to reflect upon the session, talk about the weather, completely ignore each other, or go straight home is up to you, but you'll be given the opportunity. Right - I think that's all." Claire reached down for another large file. "Onto the paperwork. Sorry about this but it's standard practice." She handed each of them a poly-pocket with a few sheets of paper in, Sherlock came and sat back down, apparently having garnered all necessary background information on her.

"There's a confidentiality agreement you both need to sign, just detailing that anything said here will be kept between us unless there's an element of risk to yourselves and it's necessary for me to involve a mental health professional, or an element of risk to anybody else in which case I will contact your handler - DI Lestrade." Sherlock scrawled a loopy signature on his contract long before John had finished reading the details. "And a standard diversity questionnaire, the usual stuff, but it's only short." She added as they turned the page in synchronisation to the next sheet.

"This information influences our therapy?" Sherlock queried, scanning the questions - Age, gender, nationality, sexual orientation, known disabilities/medical conditions etc.  
"It does not, it's anonymously handed back so we can keep records on how many Caucasian males are treated for depression in a year versus how many Hispanic males, whether women on the force need more mental health support than men or vice versa and so on - it's just for our data purposes." She explained as John ticked 'White British', having already filled out his age (forty, it sounded so old) and gender. Sherlock scrawled his way through the written section but hovered over the question  
"_Which of these best describes your sexuality?_" for a very long time with a small frown on his face. There were four boxes - Gay, Heterosexual, Bisexual, Other. Sherlock had never really had to think about this one. John had already finished his form and handed it back to Claire by the time Sherlock decided, ticking a box and folding the sheet in two so it remained hidden.

"Thank you." She said with a smile, taking the paper from him and rustling up another sheet. "And then there's the little matter of payment - those employed by Scotland Yard are covered for this sort of treatment but neither of you are technically..." She started.  
"I'll take care of that." Sherlock said abruptly, cutting her off and plucking the A4 letter from her hand. He pocketed it very quickly, leaving John a little put out.  
"Sherlock I can pay my own way..." He complained, sticking his hand out for the letter.  
"Nonsense, you've been out of work for an age, I'll see to it." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  
"Sherlock." John said in a warning tone. He was not a child, he did not need looking after. The fact that Mycroft had been paying the rent on 221b since Sherlock's death irked John to no end - even though he knew he'd never have been able to keep the flat without the financial assistance, it left him feeling indebted and he hated that. Giving someone else that control over him was not something he took to lightly.

"Ah, okay. Well it seems we've started." Claire interrupted. "I'd like to ask you why you're here."  
"Lestrade sent you an email." Sherlock frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. "You _know _why we're here."  
"I do. But I'd like to hear it from each of you, in your own words." She prompted. "Sherlock, why don't you go first? Why are you here?" Sherlock hesitated.  
"Because John wants me to be here." He said flatly.  
"That's certainly a powerful statement." She responded. "But why do you want to be here?"  
"I don't." He said simply, sounding a little bored. John gave a soft sigh. "Oh don't do the exasperated thing like I've said something disappointing. You know I don't want to be here." Sherlock snapped at him waspishly.

"John, why are you here?" Claire asked in a much kinder tone than she had used with Sherlock. It was not that she didn't like Sherlock or sided with John in any way, she just knew that softness would not be appreciated with him - seen as a weakness, so she stayed firmer with Sherlock than with John.  
"I can't trust him any more." John stared at his knees while he spoke.  
"I've already explained..." Sherlock began, irritated.  
"Sherlock - John is speaking." Claire cut in sternly. "Please let him finish."  
"Oh for..." Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and leaning towards the chair arm in indignation. John was surprised, Sherlock rarely ever listened to people telling him off. Apparently he genuinely was trying and that brought a tiny smile to the corner of John's face.  
"I can't trust him and he doesn't understand why what he did hurt me so much." John continued awkwardly. "He's not once said he's sorry... just tried to explain it all away and yeah it's... it's kind of... tense." He paused before adding. "I'm finished speaking."

"Finally." Sherlock droned. "I have told you that I won't grovel for your forgiveness because I DON'T regret what I did - I saved your life. I saved Mrs Hudson and Lestrade too. It was the only way!" He argued sounding very frustrated. "Would you rather I have let the sniper's blow your head off?"  
"See..." John sighed forlornly.  
"If it's okay, I'm going to make notes as we speak." Claire told them, scribbling away on a loose leaf of paper. "You're entitled to view them at any point during the session but I recommend you save it until your twenty minute reflection period." John did the exact same thing he'd done before, read upside down that under his name she'd put 'trust issues'.

"Okay, so, Sherlock - in your head, you faking your suicide is justified by the fact it saved John's life?"  
"Yes." Sherlock groaned, running his hand through his hair. They'd been over this.  
"And you fail to see why John might have been hurt by your death?" She questioned, still writing very quickly.  
"Of course not." He snapped. "Grief, loss, I understand that I'm not ignorant of that fact - but it doesn't matter! I'm here now, I'm not dead but he's stubborn and ungrateful and..."  
"Ungrateful? ME?" John argued hotly.  
"John, Sherlock is speaking!" Claire interrupted again. "I understand you disagree with his opinions but we have to let him air them to better understand his point of view."  
"Yes: ungrateful." Sherlock growled. "I put a lot of effort into keeping you alive, admittedly there were side effects but it kept you safe, didn't it? I returned as soon as I was able. Holding the flat to ransom is childish."

"Pardon? The flat?" Claire queried, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.  
"The flat. Our flat." Sherlock insisted. John just heaved another sigh, much heavier.  
"This... this is why we're here. I can't keep having the same arguments." He said, shaking his head. "It just goes round and round in circles. He doesn't see what he's done is wrong and I just... I can't any more you know?" He lay his head in his hands and took a deep breath.  
"Okay... well, I think you have a point there John, you both have very strong opinions on the matter and don't see the other's point of view, so forcing the issue isn't going to help it for now, if it's okay I'd like to move on to the activity." She said. "I'm sure you'll have done this or something similar before... I'd like you both to stand up and walk into the middle of the rug, anywhere around there is fine." She indicated vaguely. Reluctantly John followed Sherlock to a position in the vacant left hand side of the room.

"It's a run-of-the-mill trust exercise, probably the most basic one around." John tensed slightly, wishing he'd not left his cane beside the sofa, because he had a nasty feeling that he knew where this was going. "It doesn't matter which of you goes first, but I'd like one of you to turn your back on the other, and on the count of three I want you to fall backwards, trusting that they'll catch you. Assuming your leg is up to this, John?"  
"His leg is fine, it's all in his head." Sherlock dismissed.  
"Shut up Sherlock." John hissed. "I... it doesn't really hurt when I stand, it'll be fine." He murmured, hoping he was correct, it felt stiffer than ever, weighing him down on one side. Sherlock gave an exhausted, slightly raspyexhalation and moved so his back was to John, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he'd lined himself up correctly, then taking a half step forward to account for the height difference.  
"Okay, when I count to three, Sherlock I want you to have faith that John won't let you fall." John winced at the wording. Could be better, given the circumstances.

"One." Claire said clearly, John shifted nervously and stuck his arms out a little. "Two." She continued, John braced himself to receive Sherlock's weight. "Three." And just like that, with grace and elegance Sherlock fell comfortably backwards into John's outstretched arms. He wasn't heavy, with both his feet still on the floor and John's arms supporting him under his armpits, the weight was a steady, even pressure against John's chest, Sherlock's curls tickling his chin. He gave Sherlock a slight nudge, righting the detective once more.  
"Okay..." John mumbled awkwardly, for lack of anything else to say.  
"Very well done." Claire complimented.  
"Oh don't patronize us, it was insanely simple." Sherlock muttered darkly, wandering around to John's back to prepare for the switch.

John's palms felt a little sweaty as Sherlock positioned himself.  
"Again, on the count of three." Claire spoke coolly but John felt the temperature of the room had sky-rocketed and his heart was racing. He barely heard her say "One." John trusted Sherlock to catch him, of course he did - it was barely a fall anyway, more of a slow lean backwards, Sherlock wouldn't let him drop to the floor and even if he did it was a soft landing. He steeled himself for it. "Two." But... this wasn't just about the fall, it was about _the fall_ - the other one. John had been plagued with nightmares since Sherlock's death, watching the genius plunge to his death over and over each night, but sometimes it was the other way around, sometimes John was on top of the building, sometimes John fell. He fell for an age when he did, the ground zooming towards him but never getting any closer.

"Three."

Nothing. John prepared to fall but he remained stock still, eyes clenched tightly shut, fists balled so tightly by his sides that his nails were cutting into his palms.  
"Three." Claire repeated gently.  
"Three, John, three!" Sherlock growled. John shook his head, breath catching in his throat and eyes stinging behind closed lids.  
"I can't." He said softly.  
"I'm right here!" Sherlock crowed in irritation. John hobbled back to the sofa and sat down, placing his head in his hands and breathing deeply. Sherlock remained where he was, lowering his arms slowly back down to his sides.  
"It's okay, John." Claire soothed.  
"No it's not!" John snapped. "It's not okay!" He breathed. Claire glanced at the clock.  
"We can try again next week, nobody's expecting miracles of you yet, John. It's fine, really." She reassured. "Our time's up for this week, I'm going to leave the room, what you do in your reflection time is up to you. Try not to kill each other. I'll see you next week."

John heard the door close, but it took him a full minute at least before he calmed down enough to raise his head. Sherlock was watching him curiously.  
"Go on, laugh." John said dejectedly.  
"Oh yes, hilarious." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You... actually didn't trust me enough to catch you?" He asked, sounding a little hurt. John shook his head minutely.  
"No... I... I guess not." He mumbled awkwardly, speaking to his knees. Sherlock silently picked up the notes Claire had left on the table, flicking through them absently. They were quiet for a long time, John trying to gather his thoughts which were slipping like water through his fingers. It was a tiny drop, it should not be a big deal. Sherlock clicked his teeth.

"Lestrade's description of our relationship is as flowery as your blog entries." He said distastefully. "'Thick as thieves', 'would take a bullet for each other'..." Sherlock paused before reading out the next one. "'They're each other's better half'..." He said softly, frowning at the page as though it had personally wronged him.  
"Hm..." John had to agree there, obviously that was their relationship pre-fall, but it sounded about right to him. They had been inseparable. Two halves of a whole. Best friends. "And look at us now..." Sherlock offered the notes to John but he silently declined.  
"You still think therapy is the best route?" Sherlock questioned.  
"Yeah."

"John..." Sherlock spoke uncertainly, sounding wary. He did not want to cause an explosion. "I want to come home..."  
"I know." John's tone was unsympathetic, cold and oddly distant.  
"Can I come home?" He pleaded.  
"No. I'll see you next week." John said, and for the first time since Sherlock's return, John purposefully allowed their eyes to meet. Sherlock looked deflated, fed up and just behind the eyes, a tiny hint of sadness. It was that sadness John clung to, he had to believe that deep down Sherlock was human, that he felt pain and grief and misery, that he understood John's lack of trust was not out of spite or viciousness, but borne of fear of losing everything again. John didn't want Sherlock to be sad, but he had to know that he cared, even if only a little. His eyes gave John a little bit of hope - that maybe, maybe some day this would be alright.

A/n: This took a bit longer than I' have liked! Oops. Reviews are brilliant, and reviewers are brilliant-er...


	4. Session 2: Sense and Sexuality

They didn't talk in the week between their first session and their second. Several times Sherlock picked up his phone to send him a text ("_The blood coagulation rate of decapitated pigs is fascinating._" and "_Bored!_" and "_I've been watching the bees in the gardens for the past three hours. They're quite calming._" and "_BORED!_" were a few of his better ideas) but each time he threw the phone aside in annoyance. Without the work as an excuse, there were remarkably few reasons to just call John and hear his voice. It was rather frustrating.

"Just tell him that you miss him." Drawled Mycroft, appearing out of nowhere behind Sherlock's seat in the shade.  
"What good would that do?" Sherlock asked, without turning to face his brother, instead he watched a butterfly (pointless creatures, with their gaudy paint jobs and little substance. They reminded Sherlock of many of John's girlfriend's. Pretty to look at but not much to them) flutter from flower to flower.  
"All the good in the world I believe. The sentiment is obviously true, or you wouldn't be mooning around here like some lovesick teenager." Damn Mycroft and his condescending tone.  
"Oh shut up Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled. "Telling him I miss him won't make him forgive me any quicker."

"You'd be surprised how far an apology can push love." Mycroft leaned over and handed Sherlock a lighter for the cigarette he'd produced. Sherlock sparked up, shaking his head.  
"You've got it wrong. It's not about love." He told him, taking a drag. Much needed.  
"Oh, I think it is." Mycroft said knowingly and even without facing him, Sherlock could hear the smirk on his face.  
"Well you think wrong." Sherlock growled indignantly. "John and I are not in love, we have never been in love. Romance fade, hearts break, love is fleeting - it's a purely chemical response. You can replace lovers. You cannot replace..." Sherlock exhaled a large cloud of smoke and watched it dissipate in the summer air, unable to name what he could not replace. John. He could not replace John. "I'm just sick of him playing the victim." He decided. "I'm home. It's over."  
"It's not over Sherlock, and your crime was never going to be a victimless one - you knew that."

Sherlock paused in raising his cigarette to his lips, because what Mycroft said had much wider implications than the actual words he used, as always. He stared at the cigarette in his hand, actual tangible evidence that he himself was not unaffected by his actions. He scowled and stood up.  
"Have to go, can't keep the therapist waiting." He announced dramatically, before sweeping out of the gardens, leaving his brother stood under the shade of an oak tree, a smug look on his face.

-

"We've talked a little bit about where you both are right now."Claire began, peering through a folder.  
"An office in London." Sherlock said, bored.  
"I meant where you are in your partnership." Claire corrected, unperturbed by Sherlock taking things literally. "If it's okay, I'd like to discuss the past, how the two of you were before Sherlock... fell." She told them, John had been overly quiet for the few minutes they'd been in the session, Sherlock suspected he was embarrassed about failing to complete the trust exercise last week. So he should be. It was a tiny fall, really.  
"Fine." Sherlock agreed, speaking for both of them.  
"I've been doing some research." Claire told them. "Looking through your old case files and reports and well... something came up that _concerned _me." She frowned slightly.

"Are you aware that four and a half years ago a complaint was registered from someone you work with, she was concerned that the two of you were in an abusive relationship?" She asked cautiously. Sherlock's eyebrows knitted and he frowned deeply, the lines making him look older than he truly was.  
"No." He answered.  
"I was aware." John admitted.  
"What?" Sherlock demanded, rounding on John. "Why didn't you say anything?" There was slight incredulity behind his anger - it was very rare that John was able to keep secrets from Sherlock. John sighed exasperatedly.  
"Look it's not a big deal, Lestrade called me into his office one day and just asked a few questions... I told him it wasn't like that." He ran one hand through his hair awkwardly. Sherlock looked livid.  
"Why do you even tolerate Sally Donovan?" He growled, looking annoyed.  
"I didn't say it was Sargent Donovan." Claire piped up, quick to cover her tracks.  
"Female, works with us, has the gall to comment on other people's lives when she ought to pay more attention to her own failing relationships. Donovan. Obviously. Doesn't take a genius." Sherlock snapped, folding his arms across his chest and looking like a petulant child.

"So, just to clarify, the two of you were not in an abusive relationship?" Claire asked tentatively.  
"Noooo." Sherlock drawled.  
"No, as I told DI Lestrade it's not... it was never... Do I LOOK like a battered husband?" John asked with a sigh. "A concern was raised, Greg had to address it, so he just asked if there was anything he ought to know and I told him if Sherlock ever hit me I'd hit the bastard back. Sherlock's a lot of things but he's not abusive." John promised.  
"I'm not accusing anybody," Claire swore, overlooking John's colourful terminology. "But it was in your notes so I felt it necessary to ask. Was there a relationship though? A romantic one?"

"Oh don't ask him that he gets all uppity." Sherlock rolled his eyes, he didn't really feel like listening to John rage about his adamant heterosexuality, he'd heard it all before.  
"I do not get 'uppity'." John frowned. "No, Sherlock and I are just friends."  
"Are." Sherlock murmured, analysing John's words. "_Are_ friends. Present tense?"  
"What? Oh... yeah I... I dunno. Were, I guess?" John sighed heavily, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke, because he knew there would be hope in those pale eyes.

Claire, however, was watching both of them very carefully.  
"So you would say there is no sexual tension between the two of you, at all?" She queried.  
"God no." John said seriously, a little irritated that yet another person felt they were a couple. That had been one of the hardest parts of losing Sherlock, people treated John as delicately as if he'd lost a lover. John felt his grief had been monitored, that people didn't understand - worse, the people who did seem to understand were those of his friends who **had** lost lovers, wives, husbands. It was disconcerting.  
"I don't think so." Sherlock said evenly.  
"What do you mean you 'don't think so'?" John asked a little perplexed.  
"I mean I don't think there is any sexual tension between the two of us." He answered, he hated repeating himself.

"So, Sherlock's sexuality was never an issue in your friendship?" Claire asked and was surprised by the reaction. Sherlock glared at her, a full on Sherlockian death glare with the simultaneous heat of an inferno and the ice of an Arctic blast. John, still not looking at Sherlock was blissfully unaware of Sherlock's expression and laughed.  
"Sherlock doesn't _have _a sexuality." He said shaking his head. Claire realised her mistake with a grimace.  
"Apologies, I assumed given how close you two were as friends the subject must have come up..."  
"Apparently not." Sherlock glowered. Claire had the good grace to look embarrassed.  
"Wait, what?" John asked raising an eyebrow. "You're..."  
"Can we _not _talk about this?" Sherlock moaned. "We're here to discuss John's issues, not mine. I might add that you are lucky you are tolerable and that John has me over a barrel in regards to the whole 'therapy' or I would have your job for this." Sherlock added bitterly, still scowling at Claire.  
"We're here to discuss both of you. I am sorry if I crossed a line." Claire agreed. Johnlooked mildly shell shocked. He nodded slowly and decided to let it lie.

"But I am curious as to why you thought Sherlock was asexual." She continued, bold in the face of Sherlock's glowering.  
"Oh well he's... he's never had a girlfriend or a... boyfriend." John said, still looking mildly surprised, because in all honestly he thought he'd known Sherlock better than anybody, this was a startling revelation. "And the whole... 'married to your work thing' I guess I sort of assumed... sorry." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.  
"Not important or relevant to our current situation." Sherlock insisted, still trying to edge away from the subject.  
"Is what John says correct, Sherlock? Have you ever had a romantic partner? A meaningful relationship?" Claire queried, making notes. Sherlock was glad he was a Holmes, grateful he'd been raised to be above such pettiness as embarrassment, his face remained blush free at the implication.

"We are getting off topic." He said firmly. Claire shook her head, blonde hair dancing as she wrote.  
"No, I think it's quite telling actually."Sherlock's eyes darted to the words on the page. Under 'Sherlock Holmes' there had previously been a '?', now she had written under his name 'has intimacy issues' to match John's 'has trust issues'. Sherlock folded his arms indignantly.  
"Fine, what do you need to know?" He grumbled, irritated.  
"Have you ever had a romantic partner or..." She began her previous question.  
"Yes." Sherlock said bluntly, cutting her off. "One partner in my youth, one... attraction I suppose you'd call it... as an adult." He continued, slightly bored.  
"Irene?" John asked, genuinely curious.  
"Irene." Sherlock agreed grimly. He'd had no intention of acting on his attraction but he saw no sense in denying she'd had a fantastic mind and a body that had sparked a curiosity he'd not felt since he was seventeen. Not that any of this had to do with John.

"Your partner..." Claire began.  
"I have grown tired of this conversation." Sherlock told her, eyes narrowed. "You wanted to know if I'd ever had romantic interaction - yes, sparse, but yes. You wanted to know whether I've ever deemed anybody important? Well, he's sat right in front of you. The two are unrelated and you ought to treat it as such." His voice was cutting and John was surprised at how well he'd answered, he was obviously uncomfortable.

"Okay. I'll drop it, but I do think it's relevant. John was... is incredibly important to you?" Sherlock answered with a curt nod. "So before you two... separated. You, by all accounts, were brilliant friends?"  
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. John smiled nostalgically, seeing Sherlock open up - even a little, had reassured him slightly so he gave in to the thoughts and spoke freely.  
"We had our moments, the head in the fridge..." He said with a slight grin. Sherlock returned the smile, a small quirk of his lips.  
"Confiscating your laptop." He reminded. John chuckled and shook his head.  
"The skull on the mantle." He pointed out.  
"He's still there from what Mrs Hudson tells me." Sherlock's half smile was a positive grin now, trust John to attach sentiment to an object.  
"Hey I need somebody to speak to, makes a damn sight more sense than you do... but he never gets the milk either." He teased affectionately.  
"When I come home, I shall bring milk with me." Sherlock promised. The light mood shifted again with lightning speed as John tensed noticeably. Because 'Home' was a touchy subject still. Claire seemed to notice, she was still marginally embarrassed about her slip up about Sherlock's sexuality, but she was a professional and this was her job.

"So things used to be good and now they're not." She concluded. "It's important to understand that things have changed - that things will change. I'd like to move on to the activity, if that's okay?" She shuffled through papers while John and Sherlock composed themselves, eased themselves mentally out of the blanket of tension that had settled over them. She handed each of them a blank sheet of paper and a pen. Sherlock examined the pen carefully, standard biro, cheap, used a few times by a left handed person- slight list in the plastic lid, someone with a difficult job, placing too much pressure as they write.

"I want you to write down the good things about each other on one side of the paper, and the bad things on another. I'm talking personality traits, quirks, habits - not actions." She told them. John stared at the paper for a moment before drawing an almost impossibly straight line down the middle of the sheet (no tremor, Sherlock noted) and labelling each half with a simple '+' and '-', Sherlock was still staring at his page long after John had scrawled entries into both columns.  
"Can't think of anything nice to say?" John questioned, not looking up from his work, which was tilted slightly away from Sherlock, so he couldn't see (which Sherlock thought was a little ridiculous, the obvious aim of the exercise was to share their opinions when they'd finish).  
"I can." He levelled, but did not pick the pen up, sitting instead with it on his lap until the last moment. As Johnlay his pen down, Sherlock scrawled one wordon either side of a hastily drawn line.

"Okay... done?" Claire questioned.  
"Yeah..." John said uncertainly, still surveying his paper critically, Sherlock watched him closely - nervous, wondering if he'd been too telling in what he'd written, too cruel perhaps? Too kind? Hard to say.  
"Yes..."Sherlock nodded.  
"And... I'd like you to swap papers." Claire said predictably, she braced herself as she caught sight of what Sherlock had written, preparing herself for a fight. John however, took one look at the sheet Sherlock handed him and grinned. "I'd like you to read your lists aloud. Who wants to go first?"

Silence.  
"Don't both jump at once." She surveyed the pair of them, Sherlock analysing his review from John and John smiling like a mad man. "Sherlock?" She prompted. John's paper was messy, with words scribbled out all over the place and arrows changing the order. A perfect contrast to Sherlock's clean, basic, no nonsense list. Sherlock cleared his throat.  
"My best qualities, according to John. _Brave. Brutally honest. Intelligent_ - bit of an understatement but true. _Logical. Loyal. Enigmatic-slash-Mysterious_, really John one would have done. _Observant. Versatile. Brilliant. Parenthesis-Surprisingly-Close-Parenthesis thoughtful -_ Of course I'm thoughtful I never stop thinking." Sherlock rolled his eyes but carried on. "_Funny parenthesis-witty-close-parenthesis. Charming. A bit mad._" He concluded. "Flowery as ever. You're not writing poetry, John."  
"Gimme the list back, I forgot to add 'condescending twat' to it." John grumbled but there was a trace of the old affection, the old tolerance for Sherlock's behaviour that caused Sherlock to glance back at the list.

"Language, John." Reprimanded Claire, but she didn't sound particularly offended, and they had said nothing about swearing in the consent agreement. Bloody good job too, John was prone to swearing when agitated. "Sherlock, how do you feel about what John wrote? For the good things?" She asked, leaning back a little to survey him.  
"It's his opinion, not an objective list. What he calls funny most call rude." Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose it could be considered mildly flattering."  
"That's the point." John said shaking his head.

"Okay. Could you read the negatives then?" Claire put her pen to paper, waiting to make notes on Sherlock's reactions. He narrowed his eyes.  
"Interesting..." He mumbled, as always, seeing something John hadn't. "In John's EXACT words..._Sometimes overly critical, Can be reckless, Prone to fits of boredom, Often disrespectful of personal space-slash-property, Can be very closed off at times, Appears distant-slash-cold, Gets obsessive when on cases, Frequently gets us into trouble._" There was a small arrow from the last one, indicating it ought to belong in the 'positive' section', it had been crossed out. John didn't want Claire to know he liked danger just a little bit too much.  
"Oh... I see. Yes, very interesting." Claire smiled.  
"Fascinating." Sherlock agreed, smirking slightly. John felt awkward, very out of place, as though Claire and Sherlock were colluding against him.  
"What?" He asked cluelessly. "What's so interesting?"

"Well first of all the negatives list has less points - that's definitely a good thing, the good points of Sherlock outweigh the bad." Claire explained, not meeting his eye as she scrawled. "But more noticeably... you listed Sherlock's good points as static, a constant. Sherlock is always 'Loyal' and 'Charming', but most of your opinions on Sherlock's negative traits are dynamic. Sherlock is '_sometimes_ critical' and '_can be_ reckless'." She explained, Sherlock nodded - obviously he'd already picked up on this.  
"You know what I hate about therapy?" John groaned. "You have to watch your phrasing. There's no massive psychological reason behind that. He's not always reckless and he's not always critical, but he's also not always honest and he's certainly not always charming. So what if I didn't phrase it that way, it doesn't mean..."  
"John." Claire said softly. "I'm not judging you and believe it or not, neither is Sherlock. I think your phrasing spoke volumes there, but it only told me that as a general rule you view Sherlock in a very positive way. That's a good thing, please don't feel like you're being analysed."  
"Of course I'm being bloody analysed." John grumbled, indignantly.

"Okay. I'll stop. Now... how do you feel about what Sherlock wrote about you? I took a glance and well... personally I'd be quite offended."  
"No. No I'm not offended." John said quickly, looking back at his sheet. Sherlock had written the exact same word under both headings. _Ordinary._ Despite himself John found he was grinning again. "I know what he means... me being 'Ordinary' serves him well on crime scenes, it's his second most useful tool actually... after his giant bloody brain obviously. I know how ordinary people think, I can be inside their heads and that's... that's good for him." Sherlock nodded curtly, to convey that yes, that was exactly what he had meant. Claire looked mildly surprised but pleasantly so.

John took a deep breath before continuing.  
"Me being ordinary brings some sort of normality to his life I guess? I can't **make** him eat or sleep or put a book down but... sometimes if I'm eating or sleeping or... just there to distract him I suppose he's more inclined to... be ordinary for a bit." He trailed off awkward. Sherlock's tongue swept over his own teeth, as though he were dying to argue that point but reluctantly he held it still. "But... I can see why he thinks it's my worst quality as well... I'm boring, ordinary, normal... I get emotional about things, I get angry, his ability to detach is why he's so good at what he does but I can't do that... very few people can. He gets frustrated when I can't keep up, but hey, I'm a good conductor of light so... whatever." He shrugged.

Claire actually looked touched, causing John to squirm uncomfortably, wondering if he'd said the too much again.  
"Unfortunately our time's pretty much up but I don't want to end on that note. I have to say that you two have such a... unique bond." Sherlock rolled his eyes, flowery terminology was _really _not his thing. "And yes that does sound like sentimental twaddle, but really... you two have this understanding of each other that I don't see often. Sherlock knew when reading your list what you really meant, and you understood that Sherlock was not trying to be overly insulting where anybody else would have taken massive offence. I really hope that we can get over this hurdle you're currently struggling with because it would be such a shame to see a partnership as rare as yours to go to waste."

Claire began to gather her things while John stared intently at his shoes. She'd pretty much hit the nail on the head there, making him feel more than a little inadequate. Why couldn't he just drop it? Just let it go? They were brilliant together. Had been brilliant together. There was just a little voice in the back of his head that warned him... that knew Sherlock could so easily do this or something similar again, something that stopped him being able to trust the detective.  
"You have twenty minutes... and you can lock the door if you need the privacy." She added, pointing at a small latch, before slipping from the room. Sherlock leaned forward and scanned her notes.

"So... bisexual then?" John asked awkwardly.  
"Hm." Sherlock nodded vaguely, furrowing his brow at Claire's comments on his intimacy issues.  
"You uh... you never said."  
"And you never said that Sally Donovan thought I beat you." Sherlock countered. "For much the same reason I'd assume. Didn't deem it relevant." He dismissed, silencing them both.

"There's something I didn't put on your list." John told him after a long moment of quiet. "Didn't think you'd feel comfortable with Claire analysing it..."  
"Oh?" He prompted, still flicking through sheaves of paper. "What's that?"  
"Negative - low self esteem." Sherlock made a 'harrumph' noise in the back of his throat.  
"I do NOT have low self esteem!" He argued. "I'm a genius, I'm brilliant. I took down the biggest criminal web in the world, almost single handedly. What is there to feel 'low' about?" He scoffed.  
"You aren't immune you know... it does bother you more than you'd admit... what people think." John told him cautiously.  
"It really doesn't." He said indignantly. "I couldn't care less whether Sally Donovan thinks I smack you about."  
"Okay... if you say so. I never would but... if I'd put down, in your negative section the word 'freak'..." Sherlock winced, it was barely visible, but it was there. "See."  
"You misunderstand." Sherlock said, shaking his head and causing his black curls to bounce, they glittered like an oil spill. John was momentarily mesmerised. "It really doesn't bother me, what people think. It bothers me what _you _think. It shouldn't, but it does." Oh. Okay.

Another long silence, Sherlock lay the papers on the table.  
"I don't suppose there's any point in asking whether I can come home?" He asked airily, as though he couldn't care less.  
"Come for a cup of tea." John offered, deciding to make the effort. Sherlock was trying so hard to make this work, it was about time they hung out as mates again. "Just for an hour or so, a chat and..."  
"There's something I didn't put on _your _list." Sherlock cut him off, speaking coldly. "Until recently, I was unaware that you could be so... cruel."  
"Cruel?" John asked, bewildered. "The hell do you mean cruel? I'm trying! I said you could come round..."  
"No John. You ARE being cruel." He hissed vehemently. "And I don't think you even realise it. Claire is wrong, you don't understand at all. You think you do, but you don't."

"Sherlock if you come home now we will tear each other apart." John reasoned. "We will fight and argue... or worse.. we just won't talk to each other. Because I can't handle you being there right now... it's too soon too... raw. I don't want to end up hating you! We need space..."  
"**YOU** need space!" Sherlock snapped waspishly. "I need... I need quiet. It's too busy everywhere else! 221b Baker Street is my home, John, the only place in the world I can relax because everywhere else is either so insipidly dull I'm driven insane or so busy that my mind is cluttered with all the excess data! Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers, the smell of steeping tea, chemicals bubbling away in the background! **THAT** is what I need so don't you dare say you're holding the flat ransom for _our _sake. You're doing it for you. " Sherlock growled and John felt as though he'd been smacked in the face.

So far Sherlock's pleas to come home had all seemed immature, petty... Sherlock wanted to come back because he wanted to overlook his actions, pretend it had never happened but this... this was Sherlock vulnerable and open. John had wanted proof that Sherlock cared and in a weird way this was it. The detective was already pulling on his coat.  
"So no. I will NOT come for tea. I won't be made to feel like a guest in my own home. I'll see you next week." He said bitterly, and stalked out, leaving John feeling even worse.

He spent the rest of his reflection period with his head in his hands trying to rationalise, trying to justify his behaviour. The longer this went on, the less John felt like the victim and the more he felt like there was something wrong with him, like he was warped and wrong and twisted for not being able to accept, to move on and to trust Sherlock again. Maybe... maybe next week he'd let Sherlock come home.

A/n: I am SO sorry about how late this chapter was, I've really been struggling (also I'm currently doing GISHWHES so I've been a bit... distracted. Sorry!) Massive thanks to Benedictcumberbatchruined me, who this story is for, she's been so patient with me even when I'm emailing her at 2am saying 'I suck I can't do this bit' or 'this bit is rubbish I'm sorry', so yeah... Sherlock's not the only one with low self esteem! Reviews are vital!


	5. Session 3: Client Absence

"Meester Holmes..." She said cautiously, tapping on the door timidly. "Meester Holmes..."  
"What?" Sherlock snapped waspishly as the young woman entered, he was laying face down on the bed, his mobile phone clutched in his hand. He had not changed out of yesterday's clothes and look dishevelled, not as though he hadn't slept but as though he hadn't slept properly - which was always somehow a worse look on the detective. His eyes were heavy and tired and his curly mop of hair was askew.  
"There ees a Doc-tor Watson on the land-line." She told him, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Sherlock raised his head slightly to glare at the young maid and she looked fairly afraid.  
"Tell him I'm..."  
"Only... he says eef I do not fetch you, he will come over... he ees quite eensisting." She wavered, teetering on her heels as if preparing herself to run away. Sherlock glowered from her to his mobile - he'd had fifteen missed calls since the start of the session, all from John. He'd become so annoyed with the persistent ringing, he'd switched it to silent, feeling it vibrate in his hand every few minutes and now John was calling Mycroft's house phone.

Sherlock wondered where John had even acquired Mycroft's home number, he was fairly certain Mycroft was unlisted - at this address at any rate, the two must have talked more often during his absence than Sherlock had previously believed. He dragged himself up to his full height and surveyed the maid.  
"Why do you speak with a ridiculous Spanish accent, you're obviously from Ipswich." He growled at her. She smiled shyly.  
"Meester Mycroft likes his actresses." She said, her voice heavy with an accent that was not her own. Then, in a broader more fitting tone, and with more confidence than she had previously displayed, she added. "He pays well, Diana's not the only one who changes her name every week." Diana was Anthea's alias today, or it had been yesterday at any rate. Sherlock sighed.  
"Fine, bring me the phone." He grumbled, she dashed from the room, her nervous demeanour back in place.

Sherlock scowled at his mobile, silent, given that John was on the land-line. He grabbed the phone from the not-Spanish maid with more venom than was strictly necessary.  
"Whatever you have to say, say it." Sherlock snapped down the line.  
"YOU'RE angry with me? That's a bit rich! Why the hell didn't you show up Sherlock? You just left me fucking sitting there! Claire looked so damn sorry for me! You could have text or called! At first I was thought you'd just ditched because you couldn't be bothered... then I worried, thought you were in trouble or in danger or something! I felt GUILTY for fucking assuming that you were skiving when you could be hurt or dead or... and what ARE you doing? Sitting at home in a sulk by the bloody sounds of it!" John fumed, barely taking a breath. Sherlock had to hold the receiver slightly away from his sore head as John ranted. Sherlock was not sitting at home in a sulk, he was sitting at Mycroft's in a sulk, there was a difference.

"So go on then, what's your excuse? What the hell could have been more important than fixing this? Because I'll tell you something Sherlock Holmes I've spent the past week beating myself up, thinking that maybe I was actually hurting you without meaning to and do you know what? You've just gone and fucking confirmed why I was so mad in the first place! You don't even care, do you? Why didn't you show up?" John had paused this time, between each sentence, waiting for Sherlock to respond. He didn't. He tapped his fingers on his knee, trying to keep his temper. John was angry. Obviously. Sherlock had stood him up, had not attended this weeks session... John had every right to be annoyed but it was obvious his anger was fading already.

"Sherlock... talk to me." The doctor begged and when he spoke next his voice was more concern than rage. "What's wrong?" Sherlock found it hard to describe - it wasn't really John he was infuriated with, but the likeness was uncanny. He found himself vibrating with fury as he growled into the receiver.  
"You want to know what's wrong? Ask your _mate_, Greg. You two have a lot in common." He spat the words vehemently, before throwing the phone at the wall and turning and flopping dramatically back onto his bed.

John heard Sherlock's response, then a loud crash before the phone went dead. He winced and stared at his mobile. Well... the therapy suite wasn't too far from Lestrade's office, he supposed the walk might do him good anyway... might cool him off, clear his head, and he might even get some answers.

It took him much longer than he'd have liked with the cane hindering his progress, but the people at Scotland Yard knew him, liked him, had supported him after Sherlock's fall. He passed Sally in the corridor and gave her a curt nod, he'd never quite forgiven her for sowing the seed of doubt all those years ago - he knew the idea had been planted in her head, that she had never really had a choice, that Moriarty got into her mind like he got into everybody else's and to be fair she had been incredibly distressed when she thought she'd forced the detective to take his own life, she had needed therapy of her own. Still, there was an animosity between her and Sherlock that John did not feel right about.

John was willing to defend Sherlock to the ends of the earth against people who thought he was a prat for no good reason. John thought himself allowed to think Sherlock was a prat, because he knew Sherlock, and _he was a prat_ - the sort of prat that left the flat for three days and took both sets of keys, or knowingly finished the milk then asked John to make tea - and if that made John a hypocrite then... well, yes, John supposed it did make him a bit of a hypocrite. He knocked on Greg's office door and instead of being invited in graciously, the response was a  
"Oh what now!" coupled with an angry sort of growl. John pushed the door open to find Lestrade almost buried under a desk full of paper work, he looked frazzled, and older than John had ever seen. "Oh for crying out loud." He groaned, running one hand down his face as soon as he clapped eyes on John.

"I might have known he'd send in the cavalry." The detective inspector sighed heavily.  
"Uh... what?" John was genuinely confused, taking the seat Lestrade had kicked forward for him.  
"You can't upset Sherlock Holmes without there being an angry John Watson too far behind." He pressed a button on his desk and spoke into the intercom. "Two coffees, when you're ready."  
"Damn it Greg I'm a police officer, not your bloody housemaid." Came an irate voice on the other end, which Lestrade chose to ignore.  
"How exactly did you upset Sherlock? Only... he didn't turn up for therapy... and if he's not allowed on cases with you how did you manage to fall out?" John queried, peering at the mass of papers on his friend's desk.  
"The problem is that he's _not _allowed on cases." Lestrade conceded.

"There was a bank robbery, yesterday evening." He began wearily.  
"Bank robbery? That's not really your division is it?" John queried, a bit bemused.  
"Tell me about it." He shook his head. "Armed robbery, all available units were called in. So... I walk in, bullet proof vest and everything and this nutter's holding half a dozen tellers hostage." He ran his hand through his hair, idly thinking it needed a bit of a trim - maybe a shave? "Negotiations begin and well... I guess he recognised me from the papers... took one look at me and his face lit up... demanded to speak to Sherlock bloody Holmes."  
"Ugh." John agreed, feeling sorry for him in that moment - Lestrade had been widely publicized following Sherlock's death, and even more after his return. The bank robber must have known he'd be able to contact Sherlock.  
"So... I called him up." Lestrade said dejectedly. "Explained that some pyscho was waving a gun and begging to speak to him..."  
"And he said?"  
"He uh... he got a bit smug."  
"Expected." John agreed, really not seeing the problem yet. Sherlock was smug by default, and Lestrade calling him for help must have really stroked his overly large ego.

Lestrade sighed.  
"It just... it seemed a bit _convenient _y'know? I ban Sherlock from cases and a few weeks later we get a case that specifically requires him and him alone?" John felt his gut twist, because suddenly he did not like where this was going.  
"You don't think..." He began.  
"No. No, I don't bloody think. But I did... I... just for one moment I suspected him. I thought Sherlock had set the whole bank robbery up, hired a goon to pretend to be armed, to get back in Scotland Yard's good books..." He sounded suitably ashamed of himself.  
"He wouldn't!" John protested, feeling a swell of indignation on Sherlock's behalf. "He'd never..."  
"I know!" Lestrade moaned, raising his hand to rub the bridge of his nose sharply. "It's not his style, and he wouldn't be stupid enough to jeopardise everything now but... just for one damn minute I doubted him and I doubted myself okay! And I'm bloody paying for it now!" He waved a hand at the mass of paperwork.

"He knew, I don't know how, but he knew - he must have... I dunno head it in my voice or something because the minute he heard doubt... He kind of lost it... shouted at me that nobody trusted him and he didn't know why he'd even bothered to come back if nobody appreciated him." John winced. "Said that I'd be without a job if it weren't for him, and if his opinion wasn't valid I could damn well deal with the bank robber on my own. He hung up..."  
"Can you blame him?"  
"Yes. Yes I damn well can, because the robber heard the commotion, realised Sherlock wasn't coming, panicked and... he shot a hostage."  
"Oh god." John groaned.  
"When we got the robber in custody he said he hadn't meant things to get so out of hand... said he wanted to disappear, fake his own death - that's why he wanted Sherlock. So... basically a woman is dead because I didn't trust Sherlock, so you can fuck right off with your guilt trip coz I'm really not in the mood." Lestrade finished.

"You were bang out of order." John growled, as a general rule he liked Greg, had even gone for a drink with him occasionally before Sherlock's death. "Can you imagine how he must have felt?"  
"Oh don't give me that." Greg grumbled, irritated. "You don't trust him either!"  
"I bloody well do! At least... I know he'd never... Jesus, I might not trust him personally but he is _good _at what he does alright! He doesn't get involved personally with the work!"  
"I KNOW!" Lestrade roared, at his wits' end, his loud voice startling Sally who had just opened the door with two paper mugs of coffee. "One moment! One moment of doubt and I am paying the consequences, alright! A woman is DEAD! So if I 'hurt Sherlock's feelings' let him sulk because I for one am sick of cleaning up after the mess he leaves behind!"  
"Oh don't you dare pin this on him!" John crowed, rising from his seat, the urge to punch his friend rising. "You should never have doubted him!"  
"Get the hell out of my office!" Lestrade ordered.  
"Gladly!" John stormed out, brushing past Sally in a dramatic manner John was sure Sherlock would have been proud of.

It was only as he was half way down the street, still shaking with fury that John realised he had left his cane in Lestrade's office.

-  
Sherlock didn't answer any of John's phone calls over the next week, and while John was used to being ignored he did worry. He didn't make good on his threat to go round to Mycroft's, if Sherlock didn't want to talk to him then seeing him face to face wouldn't help anything. In the end John resorted to texting him.  
"_What happened was not your fault. I'll see you next session? - JW_." He didn't receive a reply, but was incredibly grateful when he showed up at his next therapy session to find Sherlock already there.

"Nice of you to join us." Sherlock drawled, bored.  
"Overslept." John admitted, striding into the room limp free, if Sherlock and Claire noticed neither of them said anything about it. "If... if it's okay, I'd like to try the trust exercise again. The falling one," he told Claire, who looked slightly startled.  
"Uhm, yes, of course. Now?"  
"The gesture is appreciated but unnecessary." Sherlock dismissed coolly, John actually looked at him this time, he didn't look frazzled or distressed, he looked calm and collected as he spoke. "I am aware that you trust me... or at least, you trust me in a larger capacity than Inspector Lestrade. He came round last night to inform me that you'd been to his office and torn him a proverbial new one." John nodded slowly, approaching the sofa.

"The question is: if you trust me... why are we still here?" Sherlock asked him. John blinked as the realisation dawned on him that he honestly didn't have a clue. They obviously had an issue to sort through, but if it wasn't trust...  
"I don't know." John responded quietly, and sank into his seat beside Sherlock. "Guess we'll have to stick it out to find out."

A/n: Sorry I've been updating this so infrequently, having a few issues with the old black dog. I just really want to thank Benedictcumberbatchruinedme for being so patient with me on it. She's an absolute star xx.


	6. Session 4: Revelation

This chapter takes place immediately after the last one.

"Well." Claire said, her voice its usual mixture of clinical professionalism and slight pride. "Before we start I just wanted to discuss Sherlock's absence last week..."  
"It's fine." John said firmly.  
"I know you have the file. You have to keep up to date on all our Scotland Yard dealings." Sherlock said cuttingly. "So rather than have me relive the details, don't patronise me and pretend you don't know."  
"I'm not patronising you and I resent the implication Sherlock." Claire spoke bluntly. "I understand why you didn't feel emotionally able to attend." Sherlock shot John a long-suffering look, a 'you are the reason I'm here with this shrink' look but John kind of appreciated Claire's input on this. "Just know your lack of presence very much upset John."  
"Oi!" John said, deciding he suddenly did NOT appreciate Claire's input as much as he thought.

"Yes yes, I upset John, he forgives me, that's kind of the way it goes." Sherlock's tone was sulky, as though he didn't quite believe his own words were sarcasm.  
"In future, if you... either of you, are going to be absence I request that if you can't let me know... at least let each other know. I'm sure John doesn't want me to go into it..."  
"I really don't."  
"But Sherlock... I do ask that you remember John has PTSD..."  
"Oh for..." Sherlock refrained from using the cliché of 'why am I always the bad guy?' but he did feel very victimized.  
"Which is **my** problem. Yes, he could have called, but me worrying is my deal okay." John told Claire. "It's what I do. I worry about my sister when she hasn't answered my call in a week, I worry about Mrs Hudson falling when she insists on storing things on top of her fridge by standing on a chair, and I worry about Sherlock..." He hesitated and realised with a pang where he'd heard this before. '_I worry about him constantly_' was not what Sherlock needed from John and Mycroft.

Sherlock seemed to know the last word to that sentence and stared at the wall with his expression steeled, waiting for it, waiting for John to admit to being as bad as Mycroft in this respect.  
"I worry about him when he's depressed." John settled on.  
"I'm not..." Sherlock started.  
"Oh yes you are, don't argue with me. I've known you long enough to know your symptoms of depression and since your... 'suicide' I just... I worry." John finished.  
"It's good that the two of you do have an understanding of each other's mental health and the blame game is over, I do apologise if you feel you were being penalised however I do feel it prudent to stress that if either of you are absent and don't inform our office at least an hour beforehand you will still be charged for that session." Claire informed them in her slightly less sympathetic, therapist tone.

"Well, moving on... it seems the two of you have made some progress in the last two weeks. An element of trust has returned to your partnership it seems." She pushed her hair behind her ear as she spoke, something Sherlock thought was akin to a 'tell', an almost idiosyncratic way of saying 'I'm stepping into my role now, I'm a professional but I am approachable.' Sherlock added more information to his mental file on Claire, she was keeping a file on them, he thought it was only fair - Claire was obviously a middle child.  
"If you can call it that," He murmured.  
"You don't think that John showing that he does trust you in some ways is progress?" She queried, opening her note book on her lap.  
"It doesn't count for anything." Sherlock dismissed.  
"It counts for a lot." John argued, feeling slightly irritated that his 'breakthrough' was being belittled by the very man who'd been all but begging for his trust since he came back and he had just defended Sherlock against a reprimand he'd probably actually deserved.

"Well, I do think this is something we need to talk about. I think it took a lot for John to admit to that... am I correct?"  
"Sort of..." John had to admit the whole analysing of his feelings thing was not his strongest suit, but that was how it was meant to be wasn't it? When men fell out they made up by punching each other and going for beers or something, right? Not for the first time in the past few weeks John wondered if he should be worried about the paths his thoughts took - he openly admitted to being a hypocrite sometimes but did wonder if he had a slightly sexist view on this one, then he remembered that Sherlock wasn't your typical bloke. Punching and drinking would not work with him.  
"Yes yes, John has it hard I've heard this bit." Sherlock muttered darkly. John rolled his eyes in response, and Claire sighed and shook her head.

"Okay well, I'm going to impart the 'psycho-babble' on you now." Sherlock clicked his teeth and huffed. "Well, I knew you wouldn't like it but tough luck." She said firmly, still believing the best way to deal with Sherlock was to be firm, to command his respect. "The fact is there's a lot of different types of 'trust'. For example, you might be able to trust someone with your bank details, but you wouldn't necessarily be able to trust that same person to look after your dog for the weekend and there is trust between you, but it seems the two of you are on different levels for this. What we need is to get the two of you on the same page."  
"Oh for go..." Sherlock began, ready to complain about the touchy feely claptrap and the pseudo-science of psychology when John cut in.  
"I think that's it." He agreed, nodding. "What it comes down to in the end is... I trust Sherlock with my life." The detective visibly swelled, his chest inflating with a misplaced sense of pride. "But I don't trust him with his own."

"John I am not a child!" Sherlock protested indignantly, his pride dissipating rapidly.  
"I never said you were a child! I just..." John rubbed his hand down his face. "You don't... you don't realise..." John stopped mid-sentence and took a deep breath. "Sherlock if I or... or Mrs Hudson or... bloody hell even Mycroft, if we were to drop dead tomorrow, how would that make you feel?"  
"Well I'm doing my best to ensure that you don't." Sherlock growled. People always overlooked that part, the fact that Sherlock had protected people.  
"No Sherlock you're not getting out of answering this. If it were me lying dead on a pavement, covered in blood... think how much that would hurt you and then tell me I've over reacted here. I trust you, but if you don't see how much you dying would... did tear us all apart." Sherlock looked away and John didn't push, because when Sherlock averted eye contact like that it usually meant he'd conceded a point, even if he were too proud to admit it. That or, more disturbingly, he was still thinking.

"I have to say, I understand things are still tense between the two of you but... there's a dialogue now at least. There's an open line of communication and that's a key aspect of any relationship..." Sherlock startled and looked for all the world like he'd been slapped in the face with a large wet fish... or something equally ridiculous (again John worried about his train of thought). Sherlock's pale eyes widened and his jaw slackened in realisation. "A relationship is built on a lot of different..." Sherlock stood up, still shocked by some unknown thought.  
"I'm going for a cigarette." He said, voice distant and vague as he made his way across the room, pulling on his coat.  
"What, no Sherlock... you quit, you were doing really well." The doctor in John spoke without thinking, knowing it was a mistake the moment Sherlock whipped around, his coat billowing ominously with the motion.

"Yes." Sherlock growled. "I quit. I was doing well. Then I jumped off a building, trusting only my own genius that I'd actually survive, in order to save the lives of people I - heaven forbid - actually care for. I then spent three years on the run, killing people, you of all people know the toll that takes on a person, the whole kill or be killed mentality. I spent three years protecting you all! I ensured Lestrade and Molly kept their jobs! I made sure you got to keep the flat! I had Mycroft push through Mrs Hudson's hip operation! Hell I even had Scotland Yard approve Anderson and Donovan's compassionate leave! _Then _I come back, I give them the miracle they all asked for, the miracle _you_ pleaded for at my graveside, begged for - only to find that nobody trusts me, nobody is grateful for the fact I sacrificed - gambled EVERYTHING and I lost it." His voice rose to a roar and his eyes glinted with anger and hurt and betrayal and... John wanted to stop this, to cut Sherlock off and comfort him somehow but the very fact that Sherlock was ranting and raging was unprecedented - John didn't know how to calm Sherlock when he was emotional.

"And the worst thing, the very worst thing? People talk about how badly they're hurting, about how what I did affected _them. _Nobody appreciates it! Nobody just stops and THINKS! So, after all that, if I'm stressed enough to need a cigarette then I will have one, whether you like it or not, _Doctor._" Sherlock span on his heel and headed toward the door, adding as an afterthought of.

"I'll be skipping the 'reflection period'." He slammed the door as he vanished. John clenched his eyes shut tight and wished Sherlock had punched him, because that... that had bloody stung. Sherlock didn't do emotional outbursts and he certainly didn't do them in front of people like Claire. Claire who was bound to be looking at him sympathetically again and John couldn't stand it. He took several deep breaths and willed his knee to support him as he stood, he was aware Claire was talking to him (_her voice sounds kind _he thought absently) but he just nodded curtly.  
"I'll... see you next week." He mumbled, not waiting for a response as he dashed out of the building. Sherlock was outside, leaning against a wall with a cig hovering an inch or two above his lips as he blew plumes of smoke into the wind.

"Sherlock..." He started cautiously.  
"Go. Away." Sherlock hissed and for a moment John thought he'd fucked everything up, until Sherlock spoke again. "I need time to think... time to process... new data... new... emotions, feelings." He spoke in his usual irritated tone, the one he used when he needed to go to his mind palace while in a public place where it wouldn't be convenient. "Let me think." He didn't look at John as he vocalised, taking another drag from his cigarette.  
"Sherlock... there's something you always ask me... at the end of these sessions." John suddenly wanted nothing more than eye contact from the detective, to see those glasz orbs with any other emotion than the fury they'd possessed when Sherlock had torn him down. He gulped. "Ask me... ask me again, Sherlock." John pleaded. Sherlock took in a large lung full of smoke and drew his lips into a tight circle to channel it back out into the sky.

"John." Sherlock said softly. "If you have any respect for what remains of our friendship you will leave me right now. I -**need**- to think."  
"I will see you next week... right?" He asked apprehensively. Sherlock stayed quiet. "Because the truth is... I don't know what's wrong with us... I don't know what's wrong with me." He admitted. "I don't know why I'm still so hurt when you're... here, you're living and breathing and... but I think we're close to figuring it out." Sherlock sighed dramatically, annoyed with John for still being present. "And... when you sigh like that and go off to... wherever the hell it is you go when you're in your head I can't help but think you've figured it out already but... I'm not there yet Sherlock and I think we need to keep at this until I am."  
"John." Sherlock's voice was even softer now, barely a whisper. "If I promise to come back to this ...insanity next week will you please leave me to think?"  
"Yes." John agreed.  
"I will see you next week." Sherlock said bluntly. John nodded slowly.  
"Next week." John swore and set off at a slightly slower pace but managing to suppress the limp.

Sherlock watched him go, trembling slightly as he sparked up a second cigarette. He wondered how John could see through him so easily some times when he was so dense at others. Truth was Sherlock was shaken to a core he didn't know he had, by the all too vivid picture his imagination had supplied - John lying dead. That had been too much to handle and completely fair of John to ask of him, but that coupled with the talk of 'relationships' had triggered something inside Sherlock. Of course, logically, any two people who knew each other even casually were in a relationship of sorts, whether they were acquaintances or friends or relatives - a relationship simply required two people.  
"One word." Sherlock murmured to himself. One word and the anguish caused by very vivid mental picture was all it had taken to tip Sherlock's world view on its rear. It had taken his brain (going a million miles a second) nearly three whole minutes to come to the conclusion he had reached in that office.

Despite every nerve ending in his brain telling him this was a bad idea, possibly the most dangerous thing he'd ever done - the glaringly obvious truth was that Sherlock was in love with John.

A/n: Hey would you look at that - I actually updated! Sherlock has an entire week to deal with this new revelation.


	7. Session 5: Panic

Claire took pride in her office. It was something she'd always done, before every session she straightened up a little, placing tissues on the table in case of tears, pulling the blinds down in autumn when the sunlight was aimed squarely at her room (like it was today). She prepared her files for the next session - Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, an interesting pair in her professional opinion. It wasn't that she preferred John to Sherlock, no, of the two Sherlock was definitely the most unusual case, but she knew they both needed very different levels of care. John responded to gentle words and the occasional coaxing, Sherlock reminded Claire of her younger brother - stubborn to the end, the best way to deal with people like Sherlock was to challenge them, to push them and let them push back in their own way. She knew she was harsh with Sherlock but it was the best way to handle him and she would defend that decision if anybody decided to report her for it (and she would not put that past Sherlock, at all).

Claire adjusted one of the pictures on her shelf, her older sister with Claire's own son. She smiled absently and turned as she heard the door go.  
"Good morning John." She said cheerily. She saw John's eyes flicker round the room in hope of Sherlock being there already, no such luck. "Please take a seat, I'm sure he'll be here soon."  
"He will. He promised." John said confidently, removing his jacket as he sat down.  
"How you doing, John?" She asked, settling herself into her seat across from the sofa.  
"Truthfully... I dunno." He answered honestly. "Things seemed to be..." The door went again and Sherlock strode in.

"You look like hell..." John said without thinking. Sherlock looked dishevelled, his curls skewed and his coat buttoned up wrong. He looked as though he'd run the entire way.  
"Didn't want to be late." Sherlock mumbled awkwardly. "Mycroft was being childish and refused to send a car until I submitted to a..." He blinked and realised who was present. "Never mind."  
"Please don't tell me that sentence was going to end 'drug test'." John asked, worried.  
"It wasn't." Sherlock reassured, sitting down and unbuttoning his coat. He ran his hands through his hair to set it back to its usual 'sexy mess' rather than his current state of 'messy mess', John had to ask him how he did that one day... one day when he wasn't staring at John so intently. That was unsettling actually.

"What do you want from me, John?" Sherlock asked bluntly, not bothering to greet Claire.  
"I... openness I guess. I... dunno. I want to talk." John said, deciding as he went. Sherlock nodded as though this answer was acceptable.  
"Hm." Claire said, a small smile playing on her lips. "Is that something you can handle, Sherlock? Being open and honest?"  
"I can try." Sherlock agreed.  
"Then it's open season." Claire said with a grin. "John, is there anything you want to know about Sherlock or about the events that have brought you two here?" John thought for a very long moment before asking very softly.  
"When you were... away..." John could not bring himself to say 'dead'. "Did you miss us?" Sherlock frowned slightly, straight to the point then.  
"I did." He said honestly.  
"Care to elaborate on that, Sherlock?" Claire prompted. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not thinking about his response before he gave it.

"I don't need to." He said simply. "John knows what it's like to miss someone, he knows how that feels. He also knows me, he knows what admitting that I missed them means and in case you don't - it means admitting that I care, confessing that I'm not the sociopath I tell people that I am." Sherlock explained very deliberately, as though talking to a small child but Claire did not seem to mind being patronised, because Sherlock was actually talking, opening up and airing his feelings rather than his opinions.  
"Thanks." John mumbled.

"More to the point, if we're in the business of psychoanalysing, your next question is likely to be why, when asking for complete honesty, John chose that particular question." Sherlock continued, in his stride. "He did not ask because he knew the answer and he just wanted to hear me to say it, he asked because he genuinely did not know whether I missed those I left behind. My very last action toward him before the phone call on the roof was lying to him to distance myself, to come across as uncaring, he seeks reassurance that those were the only lies, part of the act. John wants to know whether my actions caused me to suffer, not because he wants me to suffer, but because it proves that they... he means something to me." He finished conclusively.  
"You've been reading psychology books, Mr Holmes." Claire said, sounding more than a little proud of him.  
"Am I correct, John?" Sherlock questioned.  
"You're always correct." John mumbled, feeling slightly exposed, Sherlock had pretty much summarized everything he'd been thinking for the past three years.  
"In which case all I ask is that you do not mistake my reticence for lack of emotion." Sherlock bowed his head as he spoke, thinking his words over carefully.

"You once knew, without a shadow of a doubt that I am capable of such emotion, yet this has shaken you. It's not that you do not trust me, it's that you do not trust that instinct anymore - the rest of the world believes me to be a heartless creature and you did not, but three years of my absence and the media whispering thoughtless words have robbed you of your confidence. You doubted me because you doubt yourself." He said quietly. John was silent, because for all Sherlock despised psycho-babble he was pretty bloody good at it.

"Well... that leads us quite nicely into our 'practical' portion for the day." Claire also spoke softly, understanding they were both raw right now, Sherlock speaking John's mind had left them both slightly more vulnerable than they were used to being in these sessions. "A lot goes unspoken between the two of you, I've never seen a bond quite like yours and I understand that right now that bond is strained but it is very much there."  
"Yeah..." John murmured, sounding like he agreed with that.  
"But sometimes, as Sherlock quite rightly said, people seek reassurance. Sometimes just hearing something said aloud can open floodgates." She set down her files on the table and clasped her hands on her lap.

"There is a lot of love between you two." She raised her hand to silence John who looked rather exasperated. "And before you start with the whole 'I'm not gay' thing, you can relax, I heard you the first time. Love is not always a romantic connection, you can love a sibling, a friend, a pet or a partner all in different ways and it's not my place to have an opinion on the love you two have for each other but I will tell you that it's there." Sherlock had averted his eyes once more to the wall behind Claire. "So that's today's practical. All I want you to do is tell the other, reassure them that you do care for them... sometimes just saying it helps."  
"This is stupid." John grumbled, feeling very put upon.  
"I can go first, if you'd prefer." Sherlock offered, surprisingly. Claire nodded.

He turned to face John this time, his eyes set determinedly on the doctor's.  
"John, I can honestly say that I love you." He said clearly. John got a lump in his throat knowing inherently that Sherlock had never said that to anybody else. "I may not be the best at expressing the sentiment but it is there, should you ever wish to be reassured of this fact, you need only ask." Sherlock promised him.  
"I..." John furrowed his brow slightly. "Yeah... yeah I love you too." John gulped and his eyes widened as the realisation hit him with the force of a tank. John thought he saw Sherlock's lip's twitch upwards as the world crashed down around him and it was only then that John became aware that Sherlock had already figured it out. Claire smiled serenely.

"I'll leave the two of you alone for your reflection session. Remember, you can lock the door if you'd prefer privacy." She said quietly, slipping from the room unnoticed as Sherlock and John had not broken eye contact since the words had been said.  
"Knew you'd get there in the end." Sherlock said softly. John laughed and stood up, needing to move around, needing to try make sense of it all in his head.  
"How did we not see this one coming?" He asked, running his hand through his hair and turning away from Sherlock to gather his thoughts.  
"If it makes you feel any better, I only realised it myself last week." John gave another nervous laugh, shaking his head in almost disbelief because it made sense, it made a lot of bloody sense. He heard Sherlock rise from his seat and lock the door.

"What the hell do we do now?" John asked with a sigh. He heard Sherlock tear some tissues from the box Claire kept on the table but didn't have time to indignantly protest that he was not about to burst into tears because Sherlock was at his back, slipping one arm around his waist. It was the first real contact they'd sustained since Sherlock's return and it felt intimate, reassuring, Sherlock's figure was warm against his back, embracing him from behind and it reminded John that this was very very real. The detective was back from the dead and very much alive, warm and tangible and... nibbling his ear.  
"Well, I don't know what you intend to do." His voice was a low soft rumble against the shell of John's ear. "But I have twenty minutes inside a locked room, with the man I am in love with. I intend to use them wisely." He murmured in what could only be described as a seductive tone.

The strangest thing about the whole thing was that it didn't feel strange at all, Sherlock nuzzling his neck seemed perfectly natural, the calmest John had been in years, the arm around his waist was strong and protective and John had not felt this safe in an eternity. Sherlock placed a soft, open mouthed kiss to John's pulse point and the doctor shivered, leaning backwards against Sherlock's chest. It was comfortable, and the worries and concerns ricocheting in John's skull had nothing on the sense of ease that washed over him under Sherlock's ministrations.

Except Sherlock's touch was rapidly shifting from comforting to sexual, his thin fingers deliberately untucking John's shirt and dear god that was not appropriate.  
"Sherlock!" John protested. "No... we can't..." Except his argument died on his tongue as Sherlock's fingertips grazed his abdomen, electricity shooting up his spine as they did.  
"Can." Was all Sherlock said, tracing the waistband of John's jeans with his thumb. John tried to fight again when Sherlock flicked the button of his jeans open.  
"We are in a therapist's office!" He hissed, but it wasn't a hiss of indignation or fury, it was the hiss of a man touched intimately for the first time in... god it had been a while.  
"The door is locked and the blind is drawn." Sherlock punctuated his assurance that they would not be interrupted by nipping John's neck gently. The scrape of teeth against his throat may have been what caused John to shudder, or it could have been the fact that Sherlock had pushed down John's underwear and exposed him. Exposed was definitely the right word, vulnerable would be another to sum up John's situation.

This was wrong, they needed to stop, they needed to talk this through and work it out because John wasn't certain what Sherlock wanted, hell he wasn't sure what _he _wanted - but it was getting increasingly harder to think. Harder being the operative word.

He silently cursed his body's reaction, because no matter how inappropriate the predicament was, John was more turned on than he felt he'd ever been, and if the insistent swell against the small of John's back was any indication he was not the only one. John didn't have time to dwell on the fact Sherlock, another man, was entangled with him, blatantly aroused or the fact that didn't feel at all the most disturbing factor, because Sherlock's fingers had grasped John's erection and all thoughts John had dissipated to nothing. He stopped resisting, leaning his head backwards against Sherlock's shoulder as the taller man stroked him. He closed his eyes because he knew the sight would be a powerful one, but his brain supplied the scene for him in vivid detail, the contrast of Sherlock's pale hand against the flush of his own arousal, he could see the bead of pre-cum he knew was forming at his crown and he could picture the man that he could hear breathing heavily against his neck - cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide, brain blissfully silent for the moment.

"Shh." Sherlock mumbled, his lips never leaving John's skin. John hadn't even realised he'd been gasping and suppressing a moan but he became acutely aware of the noises they were making, Sherlock's ragged breath, the sharp intakes of his own, the steady wet 'slap' of skin on skin as Sherlock picked up the pace.

He was close in an embarrassingly quick amount of time, the combination of Sherlock's hand squeezing and massaging his throbbing erection, of Sherlock's tongue sweeping over his neck, of the almost imperceptible shift of Sherlock's hips against his back as he sought friction for his own trapped arousal - it was all doing wicked things to John's neglected libido.  
"Sher..." John began, a note of panic in his voice but no sooner had he spoken the half word, Sherlock's other hand (the one not currently getting acquainted with John's cock) briefly brushed his backside (Oh!) before appearing in front of him with a wad of tissues, poised to catch the evidence when John inevitably tumbled over the precipice he was teetering on.

He shuddered and his hips jerked forward into Sherlock's hand. When he was unable to stop the groan falling from his mouth Sherlock twisted his neck at an awkward angle and captured John's lips with his own, swallowing any sound that could get them in trouble. John's knees quaked as he came with Sherlock's tongue down his throat, his entire body trembled while Sherlock remained composed enough to keep the tissues in place. Realistically it took seconds, but it felt like an eternity for John, ever nerve ending in his body crackled with electricity and he was hyper aware of every point of contact between the two of them until he finished coming, until Sherlock nipped his bottom lip and untangled them, shoving the soiled tissue in his pocket. John felt cold without Sherlock enveloping him, and far too exposed. He tucked himself into his underwear and fiddled with his zipper while Sherlock pulled on his coat.

John was trying very hard to make sense of the last half hour, how he'd gone from straight, in therapy with his friend to shagging in the office with another man.  
"Don't worry about paying me back, you can return the favour when we get home." Sherlock said, the long black coat successfully hiding his erection. He looked pretty damn composed, which was more than John felt. He felt shaken.  
"Home..." John murmured.  
"Yes. Home." Sherlock said exasperatedly, evidently slightly irritated with John's dulled mental capacity - partially because he was still so on edge himself, turned on with no time to deal with it.  
"No." John said shaking his head as Sherlock went for the door. The detective turned to face him, brow furrowed.  
"What do you mean no?" He asked breathlessly.

"I mean no. You can't come home. Not... not yet..." John's voice felt thick, like it wasn't his own.  
"I don't understand." Sherlock frowned. "We fixed it. It's over..."  
"No! No it's not! Bloody hell Sherlock!" John ran his hand through his hair, all the worries he'd had at the start of the encounter coming back full force. Now his brain wasn't distracted by carnal desire this seemed overwhelming."What the actual fuck did we just do?" John groaned as it hit him. "You realise we've royally fucked it all up now? How the hell do we handle something like this!?" Sherlock said nothing, just stared the doctor down.

"We handle it at home." He said eventually, when it became obvious John was wallowing in self deprecation.  
"No. No I need... I need to think this through."  
"What's there to think about?" Sherlock countered, annoyed.  
"I just... you've had a week to think this over!" John stressed. "My brain doesn't process things as quickly as yours does and I... I don't know Sherlock!" He cried out, momentarily covering his face with his hands. "How the hell would we go back from that?"  
"Why... why would we want to?" Sherlock asked, the confusion evident on his face. John groaned again, it was obvious Sherlock had not thought this through properly and it was messy, so very messy and he just needed some time to think. Too much was happening too fast and John's mind was struggling to make sense of it all.

"I have done everything you have asked of me John." Sherlock said, there was a hurt in his eyes that John could not give in to right this second. "I have come here despite my reservations, I have been open and honest exactly like you wanted me to be. What more do you need from me?" He crowed, frustrated.  
"Just... just give me some space, yeah?" John breathed. Sherlock's expression was grave. "I'm not trying to... I just... Jesus, Sherlock!" John fell backwards onto the sofa with his head in his hands. "You told me... last week you told me that if I had any respect for whatever we had that I would just leave you alone for a bit. Just... do that for me okay? Go away, okay? Give me a bit of thinking time and just... let me figure it out." John didn't see the look on Sherlock's face, he didn't see that Sherlock wanted to be angry at being rebuffed but was more hurt than he would ever say with words. He did hear the catch on the door being unlocked and Sherlock's cold, unfeeling response of.

"I'll see you next week."

A/n: I know you're all thinking 'poor Sherlock' but give a thought to poor John, last week Sherlock's world got tipped upside down and now John's has been as well. Today (September 18th) is my birthday! So I gave you a present by updating my two ongoing fics, I suggest you leave your present in the form of a review! xx


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